THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS

I

Toward the end of the year 1920 the
government of
the United States had practically completed the programme adopted
during
the last months of President Winthrop's administration. The
country was
apparently tranquil. Everybody knows how the Tariff and Labor
questions
were settled. The war with Germany, incident on that country's
seizure
of the Samoan Islands, had left no visible scars upon the
republic, and
the temporary occupation of Norfolk by the invading army had been
forgotten in the joy over repeated naval victories and the
subsequent
ridiculous plight of General Von Gartenlaube's forces in the
State of
New Jersey. The Cuban and Hawaiian investments had paid one
hundred per
cent., and the territory of Samoa was well worth its cost as a
coaling
station. The country was in a superb state of defense. Every
coast city
had been well supplied with land fortifications; the army, under
the
parental eye of the general staff, organized according to the
Prussian
system, had been increased to three hundred thousand men, with a
territorial reserve of a million; and six magnificent squadrons
of
cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the six stations of the
navigable
seas, leaving a steam reserve amply fitted to control home
waters. The
gentlemen from the West had at last been constrained to
acknowledge that
a college for the training of diplomats was a necessary as law
schools
are for the training of barristers; consequently we were no
longer
represented abroad by incompetent patriots. The nation was
prosperous.
Chicago, for a moment paralyzed after a second great fire, had
risen
from its ruins, white and imperial, and more beautiful than the
white
city which had been built for its plaything in 1893. Everywhere
good
architecture was replacing bad, and even in New York a sudden
craving
for decency had swept away a great portion of the existing
horrors.
Streets had been widened, properly paved, and lighted, trees had
been
planted, squares laid out, elevated structures demolished, and
underground roads built to replace them. The new government
buildings
and barracks were fine bits of architecture, and the long system
of
stone quays which completely surrounded the island had been
turned into
parks, which proved a godsend to the population. The subsidizing
of the
state theatre and state opera brought its own reward. The United
States
National Academy of Design was much like European institutions of
the
same kind. Nobody envied the Secretary of Fine Arts either his
cabinet
position or his portfolio. The Secretary of Forestry and Game
Preservation had a much easier time, thanks to the new system of
National Mounted Police. We had profited well by the latest
treaties
with France and England; the exclusion of foreign-born Jews as a
measure
of national self-preservation, the settlement of the new
independent
negro state of Suanee, the checking of immigration, the new laws
concerning naturalization, and the gradual centralization of
power in
the executive all contributed to national calm and prosperity.
When the
government solved the Indian problem and squadrons of Indian
cavalry
scouts in native costume were substituted for the pitiable
organizations
tacked on to the tail of skeletonized regiments by the former
Secretary
of War, the nation drew a long sigh of relief. When, after the
colossal
Congress of Religions, bigotry and intolerance were laid in their
graves, and kindness and charity began to draw warring sects
together,
many thought the millennium had arrived, at least in the new
world,
which, after all, is a world by itself.

But self-preservation is the first law, and the United
States
had to look on in helpless sorrow as Germany, Italy, Spain, and
Belgium
writhed in the throes of anarchy, while Russia, watching from the
Caucasus, stooped and bound them one by one.

In the city of New York the summer of 1910 was signalized
by the
dismantling of the Elevated Railroads. The summer of 1911 will
live in
the memories of New York people for many a cycle; the Dodge
statue was
removed in that year. In the following winter began the agitation
for
the repeal of the laws prohibiting suicide which bore its final
fruit in
the month of April, 1920, when the first Government Lethal
Chamber was
opened on Washington Square.

I had walked down that day from Dr. Archer's house on
Madison
Avenue, where I had been as a mere formality. Ever since that
fall from
my horse, four years before, I had been troubled at times with
pains in
the back of my head and neck, but now for months they had been
absent,
and the doctor sent me away that day saying there was nothing
more to be
cured in me. It was hardly worth his fee to be told that; I knew
it
myself. Still I did not grudge him the money. What I minded was
the
mistake which he made at first. When they picked me up from the
pavement
where I lay unconscious, and somebody had mercifully sent a
bullet
though my horse's head, I was carried to Dr. Archer, and he,
pronouncing
my brain affected, placed me in his private asylum, where I was
obliged
to endure treatment for insanity. At last he decided that I was
well,
and I, knowing that my mind had always been as sound as his, if
not
sounder, "paid my tuition," as he jokingly called it, and left. I
told
him, smiling, that I would get even with him for his mistake, and
he
laughed heartily, and asked me to call once in a while. I did so,
hoping
for a chance to even up accounts, but he gave me none, and I told
him I
would wait.

The fall from my horse had fortunately left no evil
results; on
the contrary, it had changed my whole character for the better.
From a
lazy young man about town, I had become active, energetic,
temperate,
and, above all -- oh, above all else -- ambitious. There was only
one
thing which troubled me: I laughed at my own uneasiness, and yet
it
troubled me.

During my convalescence I had bought and read for the
first time
"The King in Yellow." I remember after finishing the first act
that it
occurred to me that I had better stop. I started up and flung the
book
into the fireplace; the volume struck the barred grate and fell
open on
the hearth in the fire-light. If I had not caught a glimpse of
the
opening words in the second act I should never have finished it,
but as
I stooped to pick it up my eyes became riveted to the open page,
and
with a cry of terror, or perhaps it was of joy so poignant that I
suffered in every nerve, I snatched the thing from the hearth and
crept
shaking to my bedroom, where I read it and reread it, and wept
and
laughed and trembled with a horror which at times assails me yet.
This
is the thing that troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa, where
black
stars hang in the heavens, where the shadows of men's thoughts
lengthen
in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the Lake of Hali,
and my
mind will bear forever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God
will
curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this
beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity,
irresistible
in its truth -- a world which now trembles before the King in
Yellow.
When the French government seized the translated copies which had
just
arrived in Paris, London, of course, became eager to read it. It
is well
known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city
to city,
from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there,
denounced by press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced
of
literary anarchists. No definite principles had been violated in
those
wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged.
It could
not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was
acknowledged
that the supreme note of art had been struck in "The King in
Yellow,"
all felt that human nature could not bear the strain nor thrive
on words
in which the essence of purest poison lurked. The very banality
and
innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall
afterwards with
more awful effect.

It was, I remember, the 13th day of April, 1920, that the
first
Government Lethal Chamber was established on the south side of
Washington Square, between Wooster Street and South Fifth Avenue.
The
block, which had formerly consisted of a lot of shabby old
buildings,
used as cafés and restaurants for foreigners, had been
acquired
by the
government in the winter of 1913. The French and Italian
cafés
and
restaurants were torn down; the whole block enclosed by a gilded
iron
railing, and converted into a lovely garden, with lawns, flowers,
and
fountains. In the centre of the garden stood a small, white
building,
severely classical in architecture, and surrounded by thickets of
flowers. Six Ionic columns supported the roof, and the single
door was
of bronze. A splendid marble group of "the Fates" stood before
the door,
the work of a young American sculptor, Boris Yvain, who had died
in
Paris when only twenty-three years old.

The inauguration ceremonies were in progress as I crossed
University Place and entered the square. I threaded my way
through the
silent throng of spectators but was stopped at Fourth Street by a
cordon
of police. A regiment of United States Lancers were drawn up in a
hollow
square around the Lethal Chamber. On a raised tribune facing
Washington
Park stood the Governor of New York, and behind him were grouped
the
Mayor of Greater New York, the Inspector-General of Police, the
commandant of State troops, Colonel Livingston (military aid to
the
President of the United States), General Blount (commanding at
Governor's Island), Major-General Hamilton (commanding the
garrison of
Greater New York), Admiral Buffby (of the fleet in the North
River),
Surgeon-General Lanceford, the staff of the National Free
Hospital,
Senators Wyse and Franklin, of New York, and the Commissioner of
Public
Works. The tribune was surrounded by a squadron of hussars of the
National Guard.

The Governor was finishing his reply to the short speech
of the
Surgeon-General. I heard him say: "The laws prohibiting suicide
and
providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have
been
repealed. The government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of
man to
end an existence which may have become intolerable to him,
through
physical suffering or mental despair. It is believed that the
community
will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst.
Since
the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the United
States has
not increased. Now that the government has determined to
establish a
Lethal Chamber in every city, town, and village in the country,
it
remains to be seen whether or not that class of humans creatures
from
whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily
will
accept the relief thus provided." He paused, and turned to the
white
Lethal Chamber. The silence in the street was absolute. "There a
painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of
this
life. If death is welcome, let him seek it here." Then, quickly
turning
to the military aid of the President's household, he said, "I
declare
the Lethal Chamber open"; and again facing the vast crowd, he
cried in a
clear voice: "Citizens of New York and of the United States of
America,
through me the government declares the Lethal Chamber to be
open."

The solemn hush was broken by a sharp cry of command, the
squadron of hussars filed after the Governor's carriage, the
lancers
wheeled and formed along Fifth Avenue to wait for the commandant
of the
garrison, and the mounted police followed them. I left the crowd
to gape
and stare at the white marble death-chamber, and, crossing South
Fifth
Avenue, walked along the western side of that thoroughfare to
Bleecker
Street. Then I turn to the right and stopped before a dingy shop
which
bore the sign,

HAWBERK, ARMORER.

I glanced in at the door-way and saw Hawberk busy in his
little
shop at the end of the hall. He looked up and, catching sight of
me,
cried, in his deep, hearty voice, "Come in, Mr. Castaigne!"
Constance,
his daughter, rose to meet me as I crossed the threshold, and
held out
her pretty hand, but I saw the blush of disappointment on her
cheeks,
and knew that it was another Castaigne she had expected, my
cousin
Louis. I smiled at her confusion and complimented her on the
banner
which she was embroidering from a colored plate. Old Hawberk sat
riveting the worn greaves of some ancient suit of armor, and the
ting!
ting! of his little hammer sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop.
Presently he dropped his hammer and fussed about for a moment
with a
tiny wrench. The soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of pleasure
through me. I loved to hear the music of steel brushing against
steel,
the mellow shock of the mallet on thigh-pieces, and the jingle of
chain
armor. That was the only reason I went to see Hawberk. He had
never
interested me personally, nor did Constance, except for the fact
of her
being in love with Louis. This did occupy my attention, and
sometimes
even kept me awake at night. But I knew in my heart that all
would come
right, and that I should arrange their future as I expected to
arrange
that of my kind doctor, John Archer. However, I should never have
troubled myself about visiting them just then had it not been, as
I say,
that the music of the tinkling hammer had for me this strong
fascination. I would sit for hours, listening and listening, and
when a
stray sunbeam struck the inlaid steel, the sensation it gave me
was
almost too keen to endure. My eyes would become fixed, dilating
with a
pleasure that stretched every nerve almost to breaking, until
some
movement of the old armorer cut off the ray of sunlight, then,
still
thrilling secretly, I leaned back and listened again to the sound
of the
polishing rag -- swish! swish! -- rubbing rust from the rivets.

Constance worked with the embroidery over her knees, now
and
then pausing to examine more closely the pattern in the colored
plate
from the Metropolitan Museum.

"Who is this for?" I asked.

Hawberk explained that in addition to the treasures of
armor in
the Metropolitan Museum, of which he had been appointed armorer,
he also
had charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs.
This was
the missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had
traced to
a little shop in Paris on the Quai d'Orsay. He, Hawberk, had
negotiated
for and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. He
laid down
his hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450
from
owner to owner until it was acquired by Thomas Stainbridge.

When his superb collection was sold, this client of
Hawberk's
bought the suit, and since then the search for the missing greave
has
been pushed until it was, almost by accident, located in Paris.

"Did you continue the search so persistently without any
certainty of the greave being still in existence?" I demanded.

"Of course," he replied, coolly.

Then for the first time I took a personal interest in
Hawberk.

"It was worth something to you," I ventured.

"No," he replied, laughing, "my pleasure in finding it was
my
reward."

"Have you no ambition to be rich?" I asked, smiling.

"My one ambition is to be the best armorer in the world,"
he
answered, gravely.

Constance asked me if I had seen the ceremonies at the
Lethal
Chamber. She herself had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway that
morning, and had wished to see the inauguration, but her father
wanted
the banner finished, and she had stayed at his request.

"Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?" she
asked, with
the slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes.

"No," I replied, carelessly. "Louis' regiment is
manoeuvring out
in Westchester County." I rose and picked up my hat and cane.

"Are you going up-stairs to see the lunatic again?"
laughed old
Hawberk. If Hawberk knew how I loathe that word "lunatic," he
would
never use it in my presence. I rouses certain feelings within me
which I
do not care to explain. However, I answered him quietly:

"I think I shall drop in and see Mr. Wilde for a moment or
two."

"Poor fellow," said Constance, with a shake of her head,
"it
must be hard to live alone year after year, poor, crippled, and
almost
demented. It is very good of your, Mr. Castaigne, to visit him as
often
as you do."

"I think he is vicious," observed Hawberk, beginning again
with
his hammer. I listened to the golden tinkle on the greave-plates;
when
he had finished I replied:

"No, he is not vicious, nor is he in the least demented.
His
mind is a wonder chamber, from which he can extract treasures
that you
and I would give years of our lives to acquire."

Hawberk laughed.

I continued, a little impatiently: "He knows history as no
one
else could know it. Nothing, however trivial, escapes his search,
and
his memory is so absolute, so precise in details, that were it
known in
New York that such a man existed the people could not honor him
enough."

"Nonsense!" muttered Hawberk, searching on the floor for a
fallen rivet.

"Is it nonsense," I asked, managing to suppress what I
felt --
"is it nonsense when he says that the tassets and cuissards of
the
enamelled suit of armor commonly known as the 'Prince's
Emblazoned' can
be found among a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken
stoves, and
ragpicker's refuse in a garret in Pell Street?"

Hawberk's hammer fell to the ground, but he picked it up
and
asked, with a great deal of calm, how I knew that the tassets and
left
cuissard were missing from the "Prince's Emblazoned."

"I did not know until Mr. Wilde mentioned it to me the
other
day. He said they were in the garret of 998 Pell Street."

"Nonsense!" he cried; but I noticed his hand trembling
under his
leather apron.

"Is this nonsense, too?" I asked pleasantly. "Is it
nonsense
when Mr. Wilde continually speaks of you as the Marquis of
Avonshire,
and of Miss Constance --"

I did not finish, for Constance had started to her feet
with
terror written on her every feature. Hawberk looked at me and
slowly
smoothed his leathern apron. "That is impossible," he observed.
"Mr.
Wilde may know a great many things --"

"About armor, for instance, and the 'Prince's
Emblazoned,'" I
interposed, smiling.

"Yes," he continued, slowly, "about armor also -- maybe --
but
he is wrong in regard to the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you
know,
killed his wife's traducer years ago, and went to Australia,
where he
did not long survive his wife."

"Mr. Wilde is wrong," murmured Constance. Her lips were
blanched, but her voice was sweet and calm.

"Let us agree, if you please, that in this one
circumstance Mr.
Wilde is wrong," I said.

II

I climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs which I
had so
often climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of
the
corridor. Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in.

When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy
chest
against it, he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my
face with
his little, light-colored eyes. Half a dozen new scratches
covered his
nose and cheeks, and the silver wires which supported his
artificial
ears had become displaced. I thought I had never seen him so
hideously
fascinating. He had no ears. The artificial ones, which now stood
out at
an angle from the fine wire, were his one weakness. They were
made of
wax and painted a shell pink; but the rest of his face was
yellow. He
might better have revelled in the luxury of some artificial
fingers for
his left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to
cause
him no inconvenience, and he was satisfied with his wax ears. He
was
very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten, but his arms
were
magnificently developed, and his thighs as thick as any
athlete's.
Still, the most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a man
of his
marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. It
was
flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates
whom
people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called him
insane,
but I knew him to be as sane as I was.

I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for
keeping that cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like
a demon
was certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he kept the
creature, nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in
his room
with the surly, vicious beast. I remember once glancing up from
the
manuscript I was studying by the light of some tallow dips and
seeing
Mr. Wilde squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly
blazing with excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her
place
before the stove, came creeping across the floor right at him.
Before I
could move she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched,
trembled,
and sprang onto his face. Howling and foaming, they rolled over
and over
on the floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and
fled
under the cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his
limbs
contracting and curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He
was
eccentric.

Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after
studying
my face, picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it.

"Henry B. Matthews," he read, "book-keeper with Whysot
Whysot &
Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd.
Reputation
damaged on the racetrack. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be
repaired
by August 1st. Retainer, Five Dollars." He turned the page and
ran his
fingerless knuckles down the closely written columns.

"P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach,
New
Jersey. Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon
as
possible. Retainer, $100."

He coughed and added, "Called, April 6th."

"Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde," I
inquired.

"Listen" -- he coughed again.

"Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City,
called April 7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be
repaired
by October 1st. Retainer, $500."

"Well," I said, "the profession of a Repairer of
Reputations is
lucrative."

His colorless eyes sought mine. "I only wanted to
demonstrate
that I was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a
Repairer
of Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain cases, it
would
cost me more than I would gain by it. To-day I have five hundred
men in
my employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an
enthusiasm which possibly may be born of fear. These men enter
every
shade and grade of society; some even are pillars of the most
exclusive
social temples; other are the prop and pride of the financial
world;
still others hold undisputed sway among the 'Fancy and the
Talent.' I
choose them at my leisure from those who reply to my
advertisements. It
is easy enough -- they are all cowards. I could treble the number
in
twenty days if I wished. So, you see, those who have in their
keeping
the reputations of their fellow citizens, I have in my
pay."

"They may turn on you," I suggested.

He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears and adjusted the
wax
substitutes. "I think not," he murmured, thoughtfully, "I seldom
have to
apply the whip, and then only once. Besides, they like their
wages."

"How do you apply the whip?" I demanded.

His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes
dwindled
to a pair of green sparks.

"I invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he
said,
in a soft voice.

A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed
its
amiable expression.

"Who is it?" he inquired.

"Mr. Steylette," was the answer.

"Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde.

"Impossible," began the other; but was silenced by sort of
bark
from Mr. Wilde.

"Come to-morrow," he repeated.

We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the
corner by
the stair-way.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"Arnold Steylette, owner and editor-in-chief of the great
New
York daily."

He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand, adding,
"I
pay him very badly, but he thinks it is a good bargain."

"Arnold Steylette!" I repeated, amazed.

"Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough.

The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke,
hesitated,
looked up at him, and snarled. He climbed down from the chair,
and,
squatting on the floor, took the creature into his arms and
caressed
her. The cat ceased snarling and presently began a loud purring,
which
seemed to increase in timbre as he stroked her.

"Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to the table,
and for
the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of manuscript entitled

"THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA."

One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my
own
handling, and, although I knew all by heart, from the beginning,
"when
from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran," to "Castaigne,
Louis
de Calvados, born December 19, 1887," I read it with an eager,
rapt
attention, pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling
especially
on "Hildred de Calvados, only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe
Landes
Castaigne, first in succession," etc., etc.

When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed. "Speaking
of your
legitimate ambition," he said, how do Constance and Louis get
along?"

"She loves him," I replied, simply.

The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his
eyes, and
he flung her off and climbed onto the chair opposite me.

"And Dr. Archer? But that's a matter you can settle any
time you
wish," he added.

"Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I
saw my
cousin Louis."

"It is time," he repeated. Then he took another ledger
from the
table and ran over the leaves rapidly.

"We are now in communication with ten thousand men," he
muttered. "We can count on one hundred thousand within the first
twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the State will rise
en
masse. The country follows the State, and the portion that
will not,
I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have been
inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign."

The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new
broom
sweeps clean."

"The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that
which
could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and
controlled even
their unborn thoughts," said Mr. Wilde.

"You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with
a
shudder.

"He is a king whom emperors have served."

"I am content to serve him," I replied.

Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand.
"Perhaps
Constance does not love him," he suggested.

I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music
from
the street below drowned my voice. The Twentieth Dragoon
Regiment,
formerly in garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the
manoeuvres in Westchester County to its new barracks on East
Washington
Square. It was my cousin's regiment. They were a fine lot of
fellows, in
their pale-blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty busbies, and with
riding-breeches, with the double yellow stripe, into which their
limbs
seemed to have been moulded. Every other squadron was armed with
lances,
from the metal points of which fluttered yellow-and-white
pennons. The
band passed, playing the regimental march, then came the colonel
and
staff, the horses crowding and trampling, while their heads
bobbed in
unison, and the pennons fluttered from their lance points. The
troopers,
who rode with the beautiful English seat, looked brown as berries
from
their bloodless campaign among the farms of Westchester, and the
music
of their sabres against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and
carbines was delightful to me. I saw Louis riding with his
squadron. He
was as handsome an officer as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who
had
mounted a chair by the window, saw him, too, but said nothing.
Louis
turned and looked straight at Hawberk's shop as he passed, and I
could
see the flush on his brown cheeks. I think Constance must have
been at
the window. When the last troopers had clattered by, and the last
pennons vanished into South Fifth Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out
of his
chair and dragged the chest away from the door.

"Yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin
Louis."

He unlocked the door and I picked up my hat and stick and
stepped into the corridor. The stairs were dark. Groping about, I
set my
foot on something soft, which snarled and spit, and I aimed a
murderous
blow at the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters against the
balustrade, and the beast scurried back into Mr. Wilde's room.

Passing Hawberk's door again, I saw him still at work on
the
armor, but I did not stop, and, stepping out into Bleecker
Street, I
followed it to Wooster, skirted the grounds of the Lethal
Chamber, and,
crossing Washington Park, went straight to my rooms in the
Benedick.
Here I lunched comfortably, read the Herald and the
Meteor,
and finally went to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time
combination. The three and three-quarter minutes which it is
necessary
to wait, while the time lock is opening, are to me golden
moments. From
the instant I set the combination to the moment when I grasp the
knobs
and swing back the solid steel doors, I live in an ecstasy of
expectation. Those moments must be like moments passed in
paradise. I
know what I am to find at the end of the time limit. I know what
the
massive safe holds secure for me, for me alone, and the exquisite
pleasure of waiting is hardly enhanced when the safe opens and I
lift,
from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest gold, blazing with
diamonds. I
do this every day, and yet the joy of waiting and at last
touching again
the diadem only seems to increase as the days pass. It is a
diadem fit
for a king among kings, an emperor among emperors. The King in
Yellow
might scorn it, but it shall be worn by his royal servant.

I held it in my arms until the alarm on the safe rang
harshly,
and then tenderly, proudly I replaced it and shut the steel
doors. I
walked slowly back into my study, which faces Washington Square,
and
leaned on the window-sill. The afternoon sun poured into my
windows, and
a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the elms and maples in
the park,
not covered with buds and tender foliage. A flock of pigeons
circled
about the tower of the memorial Church, sometimes alighting on
the
purple-tiled roof, sometimes wheeling downward to the lotos
fountain in
front of the marble arch. The gardeners were busy with the
flowerbeds
around the fountain, and the freshly turned earth smelled sweet
and
spicy. A lawn-mower, drawn by a fat, white horse, clinked across
the
greensward, and watering-carts poured showers of spray over the
asphalt
drives. Around the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, which in 1906 had
replaced the monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi,
children
played in the spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate
baby-carriages with reckless disregard for the pasty-face
occupants,
which could probably be explained by the presence of half a dozen
trim
dragoon troopers languidly lolling on the benches. Through the
trees the
Washington Memorial Arch glistened like silver in the sunshine,
and
beyond, on the eastern extremity of the square, the gray-stone
barracks
of the dragoons and the white-granite artillery stables were
alive with
color and motion.

I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the corner of the square
opposite. A few curious people still lingered about the gilded
iron
railing, but inside the grounds the paths were deserted. I
watched the
fountains ripple and sparkle; the sparrows had already found this
new
bathing nook, and the basins were crowded with the
dusty-feathered
little things. Two or three white peacocks picked their way
across the
lawns, and a drab-colored pigeon sat so motionless on the arm of
one of
the Fates that it seemed to be a part of the sculptured stone.

As I was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in
the
group of curious loiterers around the gates attracted my
attention. A
young man had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides
along the
gravel path which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal
Chamber. He
paused a moment before the Fates, and as he raised his head to
those
three mysterious faces, the pigeon rose from its sculptured
perch,
circled about for a moment, and wheeled to the east. The young
man
pressed his hands to his face, and then, with an undefinable
gesture,
sprang up the marble steps, the bronze doors closed behind him,
and half
an hour later the loiterers slouched away and the frightened
pigeon
returned to its perch in the arms of Fate.

I put on my hat and went out into the park for a little
walk
before dinner. As I crossed the central drive-way a group of
officers
passed, and one of them called out, "Hello, Hildred!" and came
back to
shake hands with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood smiling
and
tapping his spurred heels with his riding-whip.

"Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the
bucolic;
milk and curds, you know; dairy-maids in sun-bonnets, who say
'haeow'
and 'I don't think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm
nearly dead
for a square meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?"

"Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down a
man you
like, but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find
in
common with Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously;
he's
hideously deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane
person.
You know yourself he's been in an asylum --"

"So have I," I interrupted, calmly.

Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but
recovered
and slapped me heartily on the shoulder.

"You were completely cured," he began; but I stopped him
again.

"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never
to have
been insane."

"Of course that -- that's what I meant," he laughed.

I disliked his laugh, because I knew it was forced; but I
nodded
gayly and asked him where he was going. Louis looked after his
brother
officers, who had now almost reached Broadway.

"We had intended to sample a Brunswick cocktail, but, to
tell
you the truth, I was anxious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk
instead. Come along; I'll make you my excuse."

We found Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit,
standing at the door of his shop and sniffing the air.

"I had just decided to take Constance for a little stroll
before
dinner," he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from
Louis. "We
though of walking on the park terrace along the North River."

At that moment Constance appeared and grew pale and rosy
by
turns as Louis bent over her small, gloved fingers. I tried to
excuse
myself, alleging an engagement up-town, but Louis and Constance
would
not listen, and I saw I was expected to remain and engage old
Hawberk's
attention. After all, it would be just as well if I kept my eye
on
Louis, I thought, and, when they hailed a Spring Street
electric-car, I
got in after them and took my seat beside the armorer.

The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces
overlooking the
wharves along the North River, which were built in 1910 and
finished in
the autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades
in the
metropolis. They extended from the Battery to One Hundred and
Ninetieth
street, overlooking the noble river, and affording a fine view of
the
Jersey shore and the Highlands opposite. Cafés and
restaurants
were
scattered here and there among the trees, and twice a week
military
bands from the garrison played in the kiosques on the parapets.

We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of
the
equestrian status of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her
sunshade to
shield her eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring conversation
which
was impossible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his ivory-headed
cane,
lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to which I politely refused,
and
smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low above the Staten Island
woods, and
the bay was dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun-warmed
sails of
the shipping in the harbor.

Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks
swarming with people, railroad transports carrying lines of
brown, blue,
and white freight-cars, stately Sound steamers, declasse
tramp
steamers, coasters, dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the
entire
bay impudent little tugs puffing and whistling officiously --
these were
the craft which churned the sunlit waters as far as the eye could
reach.
In calm contrast to the hurry of sailing vessel and steamer, a
silent
fleet of white war-ships lay motionless in mid-stream.

Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.

"What are you staring at?" she inquired.

"Nothing -- the fleet." I smiled.

Then Louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out
each by
its relative position to the old red fort on Governor's Island.

"That little cigar-shaped thing is a torpedo-boat," he
explained; "there are four more lying close together. They are
the
Tarpon,
the Falcon, the Sea Fox, and the Octopus.
The
gunboats just above are the Princeton, the
Champlain,
the Still Water, and the Erie. Next to them lie the
cruisers Farragut and Los Angeles, and above them
the
battle-ships California and Dakota, and the
Washington,
which is the flagship. Those two squatty-looking chunks of metal
which
are anchored there off Castle William are the double-turreted
monitors
Terrible and Magnificent; behind them lies the ram
Osceola."

Constance looked at him with deep approval in her
beautiful
eyes. "What loads of things you know for a soldier," she said,
and we
all joined in the laugh which followed.

Presently Louis rose with a nod to us and offered his arm
to
Constance, and they strolled away along the river-wall. Hawberk
watched
them for a moment, and then turned to me.

Mr. Wilde was right," he said. "I have found the missing
tassets
and left cuissard of the 'Prince's Emblazoned,' in a vile old
junk
garret in Pell Street."

"998?" I inquired, with a smile.

"Yes."

"Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man," I observed.

"I want to give him the credit of this most important
discovery," continued Hawberk. "And I intend it shall be known
that he
is entitled to the fame of it."

"It is valued at five hundred, but the owner of the
'Prince's
Emblazoned' will give two thousand dollars to the person who
completes
his suit; that reward also belongs to Mr. Wilde."

"He doesn't want it! He refuses it!" I answered, angrily.
"What
do you know about Mr. Wilde? He doesn't need the money. He is
rich -- or
will be -- richer than any living man except myself. What will we
care
for money then -- what will we care, he and I, when -- when -- "

"When what?" demanded Hawberk, astonished.

"You will see," I replied, on my guard again.

He looked at me narrowly, much as Dr. Archer used to, and
I knew
he thought I was mentally unsound. Perhaps it was fortunate for
him that
he did not use the word lunatic just then.

"No," I replied to his unspoken thought, "I am not
mentally
weak; my mind is as healthy as Mr. Wilde's. I do not care to
explain
just yet what I have on hand, but it is an investment which will
pay
more than mere gold, silver, and precious stones. It will secure
the
happiness and prosperity of a continent -- yes, a hemisphere!"

"Oh," said Hawberk.

"And eventually," I continued, more quietly, "it will
secure the
happiness of the whole world."

"And incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as
well as
Mr. Wilde's?"

"Exactly," I smiled, but I could have throttled him for
taking
that tone.

He looked at me in silence for a while, and then said,
very
gently: "Why don't you give up your books and studies, Mr.
Castaigne,
and take a tramp among the mountains somewhere or other? You used
to be
fond of fishing. Take a cast or two at the trout in the
Rangelys."

"I don't care for fishing any more," I answered, without a
shade
of annoyance in my voice.

"You used to be fond of everything," he continued --
"athletics,
yachting, shooting, riding -- "

"I have never cared to ride since my fall," I said,
quietly.

"Ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me.

I thought this nonsense had gone far enough, so I turned
the
conversation back to Mr. Wilde; but he was scanning my face again
in a
manner highly offensive to me.

"Mr. Wilde," he repeated; "do you know what he did this
afternoon? He came down-stairs and nailed a sign over the hall
door next
to mine; it read:

MR. WILDEREPAIRER OF
REPUTATIONS3rd Bell.

Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations can be?"

"I do," I replied, suppressing rage within.

"Oh," he said again.

Louis and Constance came strolling by and stopped to ask
if we
would join them. Hawberk looked at his watch. At the same moment
a puff
of smoke shot from the casemates of Castle William, and the boom
of the
sunset gun rolled across the water and was re-echoed from the
Highlands
opposite. The flag came running down from the flagpole, and
bugles
sounded on the white decks of the warships, and the first
electric light
sparkled out from the Jersey shore.

As I turned into the city with Hawberk I heard Constance
murmur
something to Louis which I did not understand; but Louis
whispered "My
darling!" in reply; and again, walking ahead with Hawberk through
the
square, I heard a murmur of "sweetheart!" and "my own Constance!"
and I
knew the time had nearly arrived when I should speak of important
matters with my cousin Louis.

III

One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in
my
bedroom, trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds
flashed fire
as I turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like
a halo
about my head. I remembered Camilla's agonized scream and the
awful
words echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the
last
lines of the first act, and I dared not think of what followed --
dared
not, even in the spring sunshine, there in my own room,
surrounded with
familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the
voices
of the servants in the hall-way outside. For those poisoned words
had
dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a
bed-sheet and
is absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped
my
forehead, but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful
ambition, and I
remembered Mr. Wilde as I had last left him, his face all torn
and
bloody from the claws of that devil's creature, and what he said
-- ah,
what he said! The alarm-bell in the safe began to whir harshly,
and I
knew my time was up; but I would not heed it, and, replacing the
flashing circlet upon my head, I turned defiantly to the mirror.
I stood
for a long time absorbed in the changing expression of my own
eyes. The
mirror reflected a face which was like my own, but whiter, and so
thin
that I hardly recognized it. And all the time I kept repeating
between
my clinched teeth, "The day has come! the day has come!" while
the alarm
in the safe whirred and clamored, and the diamonds sparkled and
flamed
above my brow. I heard a door open, but did not heed it. It was
only
when I saw two faces in the mirror; it was only when another face
rose
over my shoulder, and two other eyes met mine. I wheeled like a
flash
and seized a long knife from my dressing-table, and my cousin
sprang
back very pale, crying: "Hildred! for God's sake!" Then, as my
hand
fell, he said: "It is I, Louis; don't you know me?" I stood
silent. I
could not have spoken from my life. He walked up to me and took
the
knife from my hand.

"What is all this?" he inquired, in a gentle voice. "Are
you
ill?"

"No," I replied. But I doubt if he heard me.

"Come, come, old fellow," he cried, "take off that brass
crown
and toddle into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What's
all
this theatrical tinsel anyway?"

I was glad he thought the crown was made of brass and
paste, yet
I didn't like him any the better for thinking so. I let him take
it from
my hand, knowing it was best to humor him. He tossed the splendid
diadem
in the air, and, catching it, turned to me smiling.

"It's dear at fifty cents," he said. "What's it for?"

I did not answer, but took the circlet from his hands,
and,
placing it in the safe, shut the massive door. The alarm ceased
its
infernal din at once. He watched me curiously, but did not seem
to
notice the sudden ceasing of the alarm. He did, however, speak of
the
safe as a biscuit-box. Fearing lest he might examine the
combination, I
led the way into my study. Louis threw himself on the sofa and
flicked
at flies with his eternal riding-whip. He wore his fatigue
uniform, with
the braided jacket and jaunty cap, and I noticed that his
riding-boots
were all splashed with red mud.

"Where have you been?" I inquired.

"Jumping mud creeks in Jersey," he said. "I haven't had
time to
change yet; I was rather in a hurry to see you. Haven't you got a
glass
of something? I'm dead tired; been in the saddle twenty-four
hours."

I gave him some brandy from my medicinal store, which he
drank
with a grimace.

"Damned bad stuff," he observed. "I'll give you an address
where
they sell brandy that is brandy."

"It's good enough from my needs," I said, indifferently.
"I use
it to rub my chest with." He stared and flicked at another fly.

"See here, old fellow," he began, "I've got something to
suggest
to you. It's four years now that you've shut yourself up here
like an
owl, never going anywhere, never taking any healthy exercise,
never
doing a damn thing but poring over those books up there on the
mantel-piece."

He glanced along the row of shelves. "Napoleon, Napoleon,
Napoleon!" he read. "For Heaven's sake, have you nothing but
Napoleon
there?"

"I wish they were bound in gold," I said. "But wait --
yes,
there is another book, 'The King in Yellow.'" I looked him
steadily in
the eye.

"Have you never read it?" I asked.

"I? No, thank God! I don't want to be driven crazy."

I saw he regretted his speech as soon as he had uttered
it.
There is only one word which I loathe more than I do lunatic, and
that
word is crazy. But I controlled myself and asked him why he
though "The
King in Yellow" dangerous.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, hastily. "I only remember the
excitement it created and the denunciations from pulpit and
press. I
believe the author shot himself after bringing forth this
monstrosity,
didn't he?"

"Yes," he replied, "of 'truths' which send men frantic and
blast
their lives. I don't care if the thing is, as they say, the very
supreme
essence of art. It's a crime to have written it, and I for one
shall
never open its pages."

"Is that what you have come to tell me?" I asked.

"No," he said, "I came to tell you that I am going to be
married."

I believe for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but I kept
my
eyes on his face.

"Yes," he continued, smiling happily, "married to the
sweetest
girl on earth."

"Constance Hawberk," I said, mechanically.

"How did you know?" he cried, astonished. "I didn't know
it
myself until that evening last April, when we strolled down to
the
embankment before dinner."

"When is it to be?" I asked.

"It was to have been next September; but an hour ago a
despatch
came, ordering our regiment to the Presidio, San Francisco. We
leave at
noon to-morrow. To-morrow," he repeated. "Just think, Hildred,
to-morrow
I shall be the happiest fellow that ever drew breath in this
jolly
world, for Constance will go with me."

I offered my hand in congratulation, and he seized and
shook it
like the good-natured fool he was -- or pretended to be.

Then he told me where it was to be and who were to be
there, and
made me promise to come and be best man. I set my teeth and
listened to
his boyish chatter without showing what I felt, but --

I was getting to the limit of my endurance, and when he
jumped
up, and, switching his spurs till they jingled, said he must go,
I did
not detain him.

"There's only one thing I want to ask of you," I said,
quietly.

"Out with it -- it's a promise," he laughed.

"I want you to meet me for a quarter of an hour's talk
to-night."

"Of course, if you wish," he said, somewhat puzzled.
"Where?"

"Anywhere -- in the park there."

"What time, Hildred?"

"Midnight."

"What in the name of -- " he began, but checked himself
and
laughingly assented. I watched him go down the stairs and hurry
away,
his sabre banging at every stride. He turned into Bleecker
Street, and I
knew he was going to see Constance. I gave him ten minutes to
disappear
and then followed in his footsteps, taking with me the jewelled
crown
and the silken robe embroidered with the Yellow Sign. When I
turned into
Bleecker Street and entered the door-way which bore the sign,

MR. WILDEREPAIRER OF
REPUTATIONS3rd. Bell.

I saw old Hawberk moving about in his shop, and imagined I
heard
Constance's voice in the parlor; but I avoided them both and
hurried up
the trembling stairways to Mr. Wilde's apartment. I knocked, and
entered
without ceremony. Mr. Wilde lay groaning on the floor, his face
covered
with blood, his clothes torn to shreds. Drops of blood were
scattered
about over the carpet, which had also been ripped and frayed in
the
evidently recent struggle.

"It's that cursed cat," he said, ceasing his groans and
turning
his colorless eyes to me; "she attacked me while I was asleep. I
believe
she will kill me yet."

This was too much, so I went into the kitchen and, seizing
a
hatchet from the pantry, started to find the infernal beast and
settle
her then and there. My search was fruitless, and after a while I
gave it
up and came back to find Mr. Wilde squatting on his high chair by
the
table. He had washed his face and changed his clothes. The great
furrows
which the cat's claws had ploughed up in his face he had filled
with
collodion, and a rag hid the wound in his throat. I told him I
should
kill the cat when I came across her, but he only shook his head
and
turned to the open ledger before him. He read name after name of
the
people who had come to him in regard to their reputation, and the
sums
he had amassed were startling.

"I put on the screws now and then," he explained.

"One day or other some of these people will assassinate
you," I
insisted.

"Do you think so?" he said, rubbing his mutilated ears.

It was useless to argue with him, so I took down the
manuscript
entitled Imperial Dynasty of America for the last time I should
ever
take it down in Mr. Wilde's study. I read it through, thrilling
and
trembling with pleasure. When I had finished, Mr. Wilde took the
manuscript, and, turning to the dark passage which leads from his
study
to his bedchamber, called out, in a loud voice, "Vance." Then for
the
first time I noticed a man crouching there in the shadow. How I
had
overlooked him during my search for the cat I cannot imagine.

"Vance, come in!" cried Mr. Wilde.

The figure rose and crept towards us, and I shall never
forget
the face that he raised to mine as the light from the window
illuminated
it.

"Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne," said Mr. Wilde. Before he
had
finished speaking, the man threw himself on the ground before the
table,
crying and gasping, "Oh, God! Oh, my God! Help me! Forgive me --
Oh, Mr.
Castaigne, keep that man away! You cannot, you cannot mean it!
You are
different -- save me! I am broken down -- I was in a madhouse,
and now
-- when all was coming right -- when I had forgotten the King --
the
King in Yellow, and -- but I shall go mad again -- I shall go mad
-- "

His voice died into a choking rattle, for Mr. Wilde had
leaped
on him, and his right hand encircled the man's throat. When Vance
fell
in a heap on the floor, Mr. Wilde clambered nimbly into his chair
again,
and, rubbing his mangled ears with the stump of his hand, turned
to me
and asked me for the ledger. I reached it down from the shelf and
he
opened it. After a moment's searching among the beautifully
written
pages, he coughed complacently and pointed to the name Vance.

"Vance," he read aloud -- "Osgood Oswald Vance." At the
sound of
his name the man on the floor raised his head and turned a
convulsed
face to Mr. Wilde. His eyes were injected with blood, his lips
tumified.
"Called April 28th," continued Mr. Wilde. "Occupation, cashier in
the
Seaforth National Bank; has served a term for forgery at Sing
Sing,
whence he was transferred to the Asylum for the Criminal Insane.
Pardoned by the Governor of New York, and discharged from the
Asylum
January 19, 1918. Reputation damaged at Sheepshead Bay. Rumors
that he
lives beyond his income. Reputation to be repaired at once.
Retainer,
$1500.

"Note. -- Has embezzled sums amounting to $30,000 since
March
20, 1919. Excellent family, and secured present position through
uncle's
influence. Father, President of Seaforth Bank."

I looked at the man on the floor.

"Get up, Vance," said Mr. Wilde, in a gentle voice. Vance
rose
as if hypnotized. "He will do as we suggest now," observed Mr.
Wilde,
and, opening the manuscript, he read the entire history of the
Imperial
Dynasty of America. Then, in a kind and soothing murmur, he ran
over the
important points with Vance, who stood like one stunned. His eyes
were
so blank and vacant that I imagined he had become half-witted,
and
remarked it to Mr. Wilde, who replied that it was of no
consequence
anyway. Very patiently we pointed out to Vance what his share in
the
affair would be, and he seemed to understand after a while. Mr.
Wilde
explained the manuscript, using several volumes on Heraldry to
substantiate the result of his researches. He mentioned the
establishment of the Dynasty in Carcosa, the lakes which
connected
Hastur, Aldebaran, and the mystery of the Hyades. He spoke of
Cassilda
and Camilla, and sounded the cloudy depths of Demhe and the Lake
of
Hali. "The scalloped tatters of the King in Yellow must hide
Yhill
forever," he muttered, but I do not believe Vance heard him. Then
by
degrees he led Vance along the ramifications of the imperial
family to
Uoht and Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom of Truth to Aldones,
and then,
tossing aside his manuscript and notes he began the wonderful
story of
the Last King. Fascinated and thrilled, I watched him. He threw
up his
head, his long arms were stretched out in a magnificent gesture
of pride
and power, and his eyes blazed deep in their sockets like two
emeralds.
Vance listened, stupefied. As for me, when at last Mr. Wilde had
finished, and, pointing to me, cried, "The cousin of the King,"
my head
swam with excitement.

Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, I explained
to
Vance why I alone was worthy of the crown, and why my cousin must
be
exiled or die. I made him understand that my cousin must never
marry,
even after renouncing all his claims, and how that, least of all,
he
should marry the daughter of the Marquis of Avonshire and bring
England
into the question. I showed him a list of thousands of names
which Mr.
Wilde had drawn up; every man whose name was there had received
the
Yellow Sign, which no living human being dared disregard. The
city, the
State, the whole land, were ready to rise and tremble before the
Pallid
Mask.

The time had come, the people should know the son of
Hastur, and
the whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over
Carcosa.

Vance leaned on the table, his head buried in his hands.
Mr.
Wilde drew a rough sketch on the margin of yesterday's
Herald
with a bit of lead-pencil. It was a plan of Hawberk's rooms. Then
he
wrote out the order and affixed the seal, and, shaking like a
palsied
man, I signed my first writ of execution with my name
Hildred-Rex.

Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and, unlocking the
cabinet,
took a long, square box from the first shelf. This he brought to
the
table and opened. A new knife lay in the tissue-paper inside,
and I
picked it up and handed it to Vance, along with the order and the
plan
of Hawberk's apartment. Then Mr. Wilde told Vance he could go;
and he
went, shambling like an outcast of the slums.

I sat for a while watching the daylight fade behind the
square
tower of the Judson Memorial Church, and finally, gathering up
the
manuscript and notes, took my hat and started for the door. Mr.
Wilde
watched me in silence. When I had stepped into the hall I looked
back;
Mr. Wilde's small eyes were still fixed on me. Behind him the
shadows
gathered in the fading light. Then I closed the door behind me
and went
out into the darkening streets.

I had eaten nothing since breakfast, but I was not hungry.
A
wretched, half-starved creature, who stood looking across the
street at
the Lethal Chamber, noticed me and came up to tell me a tale of
misery.
I gave him money -- I don't know why -- and he went away without
thanking me. An hour later another outcast approached and whined
his
story. I had a blank bit of paper in my pocket, on which was
traced the
Yellow Sign, and I handed it to him. He looked at it stupidly for
a
moment, and then, with an uncertain glance at me, folded it with
what
seemed to me exaggerated care and placed it in his bosom.

The electric lights were sparkling among the trees, and
the new
moon shone in the sky above the Lethal Chamber. It was tiresome
waiting
in the square; I wandered from the marble arch to the artillery
stables,
and back again to the lotos fountain. The flowers and grass
exhaled a
fragrance which troubled me. The jet of the fountain drops
reminded me
of the tinkle of chain mail in Hawberk's shop. But it was not so
fascinating, and the dull sparkle of the moonlight on the water
brought
no such sensations of exquisite pleasure as when the sunshine
played
over the polished steel of a corselet on Hawberk's knee. I
watched the
bats darting and turning above the water plants in the fountain
basin,
but their rapid, jerky flight set my nerves on edge, and I went
away
again to walk aimlessly to and fro among the trees.

The artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry
barracks the
officers' windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sally-port
was
constantly filled with troopers in fatigues, carrying straw and
harness
and baskets filled with tin dishes.

Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while I
wandered up and down the asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It
was
nearly time. The lights in the barracks went out one by one, the
barred
gate was closed, and every minute or two an officer passed in
through
the side wicket, leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle
of spurs
on the night air. The square had become very silent. The last
homeless
loiterer had been driven away by the gray-coated park policeman,
the car
tracks along Wooster Street were deserted, and the only sound
which
broke the stillness was the stamping of the sentry's horse and
the ring
of his sabre against the saddle pommel. In the barracks the
officers'
quarters were still lighted, and military servants passed and
repassed
before the bay-windows. Twelve o'clock sounded from the new spire
of St.
Francis Xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a
figure
passed through the portcullis, returned the salute of the sentry,
and,
crossing the street, entered the square and advanced towards the
Benedick apartment house.

"Louis," I called.

The man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight
towards
me.

"Is that you, Hildred?"

"Yes, you are on time."

I took his offered hand and we strolled towards the Lethal
Chamber.

He rattled on about his wedding and the graces of
Constance and
their future prospects, calling my attention to his captain's
shoulder-straps and the triple gold arabesque on his sleeve and
fatigue
cap. I believe I listened as much to the music of his spurs and
sabre as
I did to his boyish babble, and at last we stood under the elms
on the
Fourth Street corner of the square opposite the Lethal Chamber.
Then he
laughed and asked me what I wanted with him. I motioned him to a
seat on
a bench under the electric light, and sat down beside him. He
looked at
me curiously, with that same searching glance which I hate and
fear so
in doctors. I felt the insult of his look, but he did not know
it, and I
carefully concealed my feelings.

"Well, old chap," he inquired, "what can I do for you?"

I drew from my pocket the manuscript and notes of the
Imperial
Dynasty of America, and, looking him in the eye, said:

"I will tell you. On your word as a soldier, promise me to
read
this manuscript from beginning to end, without asking me a
question.
Promise me to read these notes in the same way, and promise to me
to
listen to what I have to tell later."

He began to read, raising his eyebrows with a puzzled,
whimsical
air, which made me tremble with suppressed anger. As he advanced,
his
eyebrows contracted, and his lips seemed to form the word
"rubbish."

Then he looked slightly bored, but apparently for my sake
read,
with an attempt at interest, which presently ceased to be an
effort. He
started when, in the closely written pages he came to his own
name, and
when he came to mine he lowered the paper and looked sharply at
me for a
moment. But he kept his word, and resumed his reading, and I let
the
half-formed question die on his lips unanswered. When he came to
the end
and read the signature of Mr. Wilde, he folded the paper
carefully and
returned it to me. I handed him the notes, and he settled back,
pushing
his fatigue cap up to his forehead with a boyish gesture which I
remembered so well in school. I watched his face as he read, and
when he
finished I took the notes, with the manuscript, and placed them
in my
pocket. Then I unfolded a scroll marked with the Yellow Sign. He
saw the
sign, but he did not seem to recognize it, and I called his
attention to
it somewhat sharply.

"Well," he said, "I see it. What is it?"

"It is the Yellow Sign," I said, angrily.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Louis, in that flattering
voice
which Dr. Archer used to employ with me, and would probably have
employed again, had I not settled his affair for him.

I kept my rage down and answered as steadily as possible,
"Listen, you have engaged your word?"

"I am listening, old chap," he replied, soothingly.

I began to speak very calmly: "Dr. Archer, having by some
means
become possessed of the secret of the Imperial Succession,
attempted to
deprive me of my right, alleging that, because of a fall from my
horse
four years ago, I had become mentally deficient. He presumed to
place me
under restraint in his own house in hopes of either driving me
insane or
poisoning me. I have not forgotten it. I visited him last night
and the
interview was final."

Louis turned quite pale, but did not move. I resumed,
triumphantly: "There are yet three people to be interviewed in
the
interests of Mr. Wilde and myself. They are my cousin Louis, Mr.
Hawberk, and his daughter Constance."

Louis sprang to his feet, and I arose also, and flung the
paper
marked with the Yellow Sign to the ground.

"Oh, I don't need that to tell you what I have to say," I
cried,
with a laugh of triumph. "You must renounce the crown to me -- do
you
hear, to me?"

Louis looked at me with a startled air, but, recovering
himself,
said kindly, "Of course I renounce the -- what is it I must
renounce?"

"Don't try your doctor's tricks on me," I cried, trembling
with
fury. "Don't act as if you think I am insane."

"What nonsense!" he replied. "Come, it's getting late,
Hildred."

"No," I shouted, "you must listen. You cannot marry; I
forbid
it. Do you hear? I forbid it. You shall renounce the crown, and
in
reward I grant you exile; but if you refuse you shall die."

He tried to calm me, but I was roused at last, and,
drawing my
long knife, barred his way.

Then I told him how they would find Dr. Archer in the
cellar
with his throat open, and I laughed in his face when I thought of
Vance
and his knife, and the order signed by me.

"Ah, you are the King," I cried, "but I shall be King. Who
are
you to keep me from empire over all the habitable earth! I was
born the
cousin of a king, but I shall be King!"

Louis stood white and rigid before me. Suddenly a man came
running up Fourth Street, entered the gate of the Lethal Temple,
traversed the path to the bronze doors at full speed, and plunged
into
the death-chamber with the cry of one demented, and I laughed
until I
wept tears, for I had recognized Vance, and knew that Hawberk and
his
daughter were no longer in my way.

"Go," I cried to Louis, "you have ceased to be a menace.
You
will never marry Constance now, and if you marry any one else in
your
exile, I will visit you as I did my doctor last night. Mr. Wilde
takes
charge of you to-morrow." Then I turned and darted into South
Fifth
Avenue, and with a cry of terror Louis dropped his belt and sabre
and
followed me like the wind. I heard him close behind me at the
corner of
Bleecker Street, and I dashed into the door-way under Hawberk's
sign. He
cried, "Halt, or I fire!" but when he saw that I flew up the
stairs
leaving Hawberk's shop below, he left me, and I heard him
hammering and
shouting at their door as though it were possible to arouse the
dead.

Mr. Wilde's door was open, and I entered, crying "It is
done, it
is done! Let the nations rise and look upon their King!" but I
could not
find Mr. Wilde, so I went to the cabinet and took the splendid
diadem
from its case. Then I drew on the white silk robe, embroidered
with the
Yellow Sign, and placed the crown upon my head. At last I was
King, King
in my right in Hastur, King because I knew the mystery of the
Hyades,
and my mind had sounded the depths of the Lake of Hali. I was
King! The
first gray pencillings of dawn would raise a tempest which would
shake
two hemispheres. Then as I stood, my every nerve pitched to the
highest
tension, faint with the joy and splendor of my thought, without,
in the
dark passage, a man groaned.

I seized the tallow dip and sprang to the door. The cat
passed
me like a demon, and the tallow dip went out, but my long knife
flew
swifter than she, and I heard her screech, and I knew that my
knife had
found her. For a moment I listened to her tumbling and thumping
about in
the darkness, and then, when her frenzy ceased, I lighted a lamp
and
raised it over my head. Mr. Wilde lay on the floor with his
throat torn
open. At first I thought he was dead, but as I looked a green
sparkle
came into his sunken eyes, his mutilated hand trembled, and then
a spasm
stretched his mouth from ear to ear. For a moment my terror and
despair
gave place to hope, but as I bent over him his eyeballs rolled
clean
around in his head, and he died. Then, while I stood transfixed
with
rage and despair, seeing my crown, my empire, every hope and
every
ambition, my very life, lying prostrate there with the dead
master,
they
came, seized me from behind and bound me until my veins stood out
like
cords, and my voice failed with the paroxysms of my frenzied
screams.
But still I raged, bleeding and infuriated, among them and more
than one
policeman felt my sharp teeth. Then when I could no longer move
they
came nearer; I saw old Hawberk, and behind him my cousin Louis'
ghastly
face, and farther away, in the corner, a woman, Constance,
weeping
softly.

"Ah, I see it now!" I shrieked. "You have seized the
throne and
the empire. Woe! woe to you who are crowned with the crown of the
King
in Yellow!"

[EDITOR'S NOTE. -- Mr. Castaigne died
yesterday in the Asylum for Criminal Insane.]